


Details

by arringtondblake



Category: Black Widow (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M, a little bit of jealousy, and a little bit of fluff, falling in love all over again, soviet assasians, with a dash of emotional hurt/comfort, with a sprinkle of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 22:32:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arringtondblake/pseuds/arringtondblake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" It looks like he’s thinking up a whole novel but all he says through his bite of peas is, “You dated Clint," and then with another bite, “for a while.  You dated him for a while, when I was…on…ice.”</p><p>They’d been over this, damn it...how she thought he was dead. How she thought she had to move on because she was never going to feel that again.  Feel him again.  And how Clint was a great guy.  How he wanted to take care of her when she wanted it.  How she was so lonely.  And how they didn’t quite fit just right, but they fit well enough to get by.  Natasha tries to temper her facial expression. She really does.  But she feels her eye brow rise, her eyes turn a little dark, her smile harden.  She had cooked dinner.  She wore the little backless black dress he loves and heels, in her own kitchen.  This was supposed to be a good night.  A fun night.  The type of night most people that were together, the ones that had normal jobs and normal pasts and normal relationships, had.  "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Details

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They aren't mine!! I just like to let my imagination run away with them
> 
> This is one of those pieces that just wouldn't leave me alone. I'd love to know what you think!

     “Something on your mind.”

     It’s not a question.  He’s long since demolished what was a perfectly cut, just on-this-side of too toasted piece of French bread.  The crumbs look like the rubble of a demolished building the way they’re scattered here and there across the plate, in the peas and potatoes and the white space where the lemon seared chicken had started out.  James, himself, had demolished that.  Before he started thinking, apparently.  Natasha had grilled it herself, boiled the potatoes, and laid it all out, nice and pretty on the plate.  Because sometimes she liked to hide her gun under her apron and be domestic, thank you very much.

     This dinner wasn’t supposed to end in such a thick silence.

     “James?”

     She quirks an eyebrow at him when he says , “huh?” with a startled expression on his face, like she hasn’t been having a, albeit it one sided, conversation with him for ten minutes.

     “Is something on your mind?” she pronounces each word a little slowly.

     His shoulders drop in a huff, his muscles rippling under the black long sleeve shirt he’s wearing.  It’s a sight that never gets old.  He still looks tense when he goes back to destroying his dinner.  It’s a moment before he starts eating again.

     It looks like he’s thinking up a whole novel but all he says through his bite of peas is, “You dated Clint.”

     And then with another bite, “for a while.  You dated him for a while, when I was…on…ice.”

     He refuses to really look at her, his eyes here and there, so one would think he’s paying attention, but they studiously avoid her face.  It’s a trick he taught her long ago.

    It’s in the details.

     “I did.”  She says as she pours herself more wine, the red liquid bending and swirling into the bottom of the round glass.

    “I thought you were-” she starts, not quite sure where this is coming from. 

     They’d been over this, damn it.  Talked about this before, about how she thought he was dead.  How she thought she _had_ to move on because she was never going to see him again.  Feel that again.  Feel _him_ again.  And how Clint was a great guy.  How he wanted to know her and not judge her.  How he wanted to take care of her when she wanted it.  How she was so lonely.  And how they didn’t quite fit just right, but they fit well enough to get by -

    “He brought you coffee this morning.”  James interrupts.

     Natasha tries to temper her facial expression. She really does.  But she feels her eye brow rise, her eyes turn a little dark, her smile harden.  She had cooked dinner.  She wore the little backless black dress he loves and heels _, in her own kitchen_.  This was supposed to be a good night.  A fun night.  The type of night most people that were together, the ones that had _normal_ jobs and _normal_ pasts and _normal_ relationships, had.  And James had become stone faced and mutilated his bread because Clint had brought her coffee.

    She exhales in a huff and gathers her plate before moving to their sink, “yes.”

     She rinses the white porcelain off, settles it in the dishwasher…counts to ten. And again.   And again.  There’s no way to do this but to let him get it out on his own time, even though that’s taken, well, close to three minutes and thirty-five…thirty-six…thirty-

     “I thought you preferred tea,” he says and then it all floods out at once, “I always get you tea because I thought you liked tea.  That’s what you were always sneaking back…back…in…Russia.  That’s what I remember.  And I’ve been gone all these years and I …I didn’t bother to learn…I didn’t notice that _now_ you like coffee…and Barton…he knew…that you liked…that French roast…stuff…black. And you,” his eyes plead with her, “you always smile when I bring you tea.  Like I’ve got it right.”

    She almost laughs because this is justso _him_ and so her life and so always confused moments and misunderstood expressions.  She can read a mark from fifty yards away, he can too and yet when it comes to their non-working life…  And it is a little funny. 

    “James,” she says, trying to card a hand through her hair before remembering that it is, indeed up, “Clint brought me coffee because we were about to leave for that drop and grab job and I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open,  I needed the caffeine because _you_ ,” she emphasizes the word with a small smile, “kept me up late.”  She adds a wink but the innuendo isn’t lost on him.  He looks like he’s been hit with a mac truck.

    “I could barely get it down.  It tasted awful.”

     “Because I…” he still looks a little confused, “you do like tea.”

     It’s a statement but she affirms it anyway.

     “I do prefer tea.  The peppermint kind with three spoonful’s of sugar and a dab of honey and a splash of milk.  Like you always make it."

     “Yeah.”  And his whole posture has changed, his shoulders falling back to the right place and his smile’s a little lighter.  He almost looks a little sheepish.

     He’s finished his peas and he brings the plate to her, choosing to leave it in the sink (the demolished bread building scatters everywhere) as he presses her up against the counter.  She can feel the long hard muscles that make up his body; his thigh as it wedges its way between her legs, his chest against hers, the well-developed muscles of his natural arm as it slides along her own and the well manufactured muscles of his metal arm as it slide up along her back. 

    She’s still a little, not _quite_ angry, miffed rather, that he ruined their dinner over something so stupid.  It’s easy to forget when he presses against her like this, his mouth nibbling over the shell of her ear.

     He starts a long trail of nips down her neck, his bites almost rough and she leans her head to the right, bares a little more of her neck for him, settling her hand on the back of his head.

     “I didn’t want you to think…I was taking things for granted.  That I was in love with…her… because I’m in love with _you_ Natalia.”

     She moans softly when he plants a kiss on her clavicle and tries to form a sentence, tries to come up with words to reassure him that she gets it, that she knows.  That she appreciates the way he sees them as two separate people but the same at the same time.  How he learned to love her all over again.  But then his metal hand is gripping her waist and she can feel the cool shells of fingers ghost over the exposed skin of her back and its asking too much to try to focus on anything else.

     “You still like that.”

     She nods against him even though he didn’t ask.

     “And this,” he says wrapping a fist in her hair to pull her head back.  He could tear her hair out if he  wanted, he has the strength, but this is just enough.  Her hand grips his own to say _yes._ _Yes and_ _never stop._

     “You like this.”  He promises before he slides his tongue along her own.

     “I like you.”  She manages when he picks her up; her dress rucked up around her hips as she twines her legs around his waist.

     He laughs against her cheek. “I like you too.”

     His laugh might be the sweetest sound in the world but she likes it when he moans too, like now, the chocked little sound he makes when scratches her finger nails up over his back.

     “Yeah?”

     “Always.” he’s been saying it like a promise for as long as she can remember.  Before he could even promise with certainty but somehow she knew he’d always keep them.

     “Always.” She repeats.  They’re equals after all.

     He tosses her on the bed.  Stalks her to the pillows, “You’ll like this.”

0-0-0-0-0-0

      “Unhh uh,” Natasha protests at the sun leaking through their window. 

     The pillows are soft and she’s still warm.  It’s just right.

     James chuckles from his place by the blinds.  He’s happy, carefree, ten years younger than he was at the table last night.  The sun glints off his metal arm and between that and his smile, it’s too much light to take.

     “I’m tired, James.”  But it doesn’t turn out sounding as angry as she wants.

     He just looks accomplished.  He even winks at her as he turns from the window, his foot nearly slipping on her discarded dress from the night before.  She pouts her lower lip out, looks up at him with the same doe eyes that got him in trouble nearly, what was it now? Many years ago.

     “Aww,” he jokes, no real sympathy behind the sound as he comes to sit on her side of the bed.

     She curls around his bare back, watching the play of muscle, seeking his warmth.  He drags his fingers through her hair.  Her eyes close.  She could lie like this forever.

     His lips move against her forehead much too soon, a soft warmth, “come on.  Get up, sweet Natalia.”  He imparts, moving off the bed, “It’s almost eleven.”

     “What a travesty,” she says, all dry humor and wit.

     His chuckle carries. 

     “Come on.  Up. I’m making you some tea.”

     She laughs.  And he laughs.  The sounds mingling like chimes. 

     “I like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews make my day. Please let me know what you think!


End file.
